these are the flatlands
were life's become a habit
so would they recognize a freebie
have the nerve to grabbit
then did the priest miscalculate
did he o'erstep the mark
had something snuffed his lights out
when stumbling in the dark
would they disect his homily
find meaning in the words
would they cry out Eureka
and fly-away like birds
it was billed as the start of the Liturgical Year
so go forth with joy and be of good cheer
we're in the village coffee-bar
her name's not Joy and me
and I must confess feeling no distress
though my husband thinks She's a He
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem